Nightmares
by Ninazadzia
Summary: Following the collapse of the prison, Beth and Daryl try to skirt around their growing feelings for each other . . . and they're both terrible at it.


**A/N: Contains spoilers from the mid-season finale.**

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_**Nightmares**_

By Ninazadzia

_"And you thought the lions were bad  
Well they tried to kill my brothers  
And for every king that died  
Oh they would crown another  
And it's harder than you think  
Telling dreams from one another  
And you thought the lions were bad  
Well they tried to kill my brothers_

_And felled in the night_  
_By the ones you think you love_  
_They will come for you ..."_

_-_**Daniel in the Den **by Bastille

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I really hate dreams.

Most nights, I dream about Dad. In theory it should be a nice thing. I mean, what girl doesn't want the chance to see her dead father again, right? But often times, it's a sickening reminder that he's gone now—him, my mother, my brother, and most likely Maggie and Glenn, too. I haven't seen them in close to two months, so it's hard to imagine that they're still alive. Still, I try to have faith. For daddy's sake.

Most of the time, I dream about "before." I dream that dad is taking me to the lake we used to swim in as kids, or that we're riding horses through the farm. But there are also nights when I wake up screaming. The image of my father's severed head is forever burned in my memory, and my dreams (my hideous, uncontrollable, _terrifying _nightmares) are a constant reminder of it. It's like my mind is mocking me. _You can't forget, Beth. No matter how much you want to, you can't forget._

What I hate most is that I won't know I'm screaming until I have a hand clamped over my mouth—Daryl Dixon's hand. "Shh, shh, Beth, be quiet." He understands, of course, but that doesn't mean I like it. I'm so loud that I could draw Walkers in from a five-mile radius. We're both so careful to lay low during the day, but thanks to my subconscious, it all goes to shit at night.

I hate the fact that Daryl has to see me like that. I'm not a blubbering child.

We keep trying to find our way back to the rest of the group. We had our doubts early on, but now we both agree that we couldn't have been the only ones who got out. And we know how this world works. People are the best defense against Walkers; you can't survive too long on your own. And you can only trust people so much anymore—we agreed that breaking into a new group was a desperate measure. That would be our absolute last resort. Of course, we haven't reached that point just yet.

Besides, we don't have much reason to look for a new community. We already have one. It's just scattered.

So, for the last eight weeks or so, we've gone with Plan A—stay in Georgia, and find our people.

Thankfully, I've run away with one of the best trackers East of the Mississippi. We guess that Rick, Carl, and Judith are still alive—knowing the Grimes family, they're probably all together somewhere. Glenn and Maggie we're not so sure about. Glenn was sick enough as it was _before _the Governor's attack, so God only knows how he's holding up in the wild. I feel the tiniest bit better about Maggie, since I saw her just before all hell broke loose. Tyreese and Sasha, with any luck, are hopefully together. Of course there are the kids, Bob, and a few others—we can only guess about them. The last person we're really concerned about is Michonne.

"Concerned" isn't exactly the right word. There isn't a doubt in either of our minds that she's alive. But we're both hoping that we'll run into her sooner rather than later—between her and Daryl, we'll really have a fighting chance.

(Of course, there's also Carol. But Daryl doesn't like to talk about her.)

The issue with our plan is that winter is starting to set in. Neither of us want to move further South if we don't have to, but the weather is uncharacteristically cold this year. Hopefully it's nothing that can't be fixed with a few extra layers of clothing.

This is what I'm thinking about as I shiver in front of our campfire. Daryl and I have made makeshift camp, deep in the middle of the woods. We haven't seen a Walker in miles, and we agreed to keep constant watch. But we don't plan on staying out here too long, though. Shelter is necessary—we just haven't come by any place that's even remotely inhabitable in a few weeks. For now, we'll make do with the camping gear that we picked up last week. We have a few sleeping bags, lighters, lanterns, and blankets—we should be okay for the night.

We sit on a mossy log. Daryl pokes at the fire with a long, bent stick, pushing around the logs so that some of 'em will catch. The constant travelling hasn't taken too much of a toll on him, all things considered. He's a little dirtier, and he looks older and more tired than normal, but he's still all there. Between all of the hunting and moving around we've been doing, this is the most fit I've ever seen him. The muscles of his long, tanned arm flex just from him poking at the fire.

I look down at myself. I've either toned up or lost a sickening amount of fat. I'm all muscle now.

"So." I clear my throat. "I can keep watch tonight, if you want."

He nods. "Wake me up in a few hours?"

"No, you should sleep. You need it."

He shakes his head. His eyes remain fixed on the fire. "Not anymore than you do."

"I'm fine," I insist. A breeze comes through, and I cross my arms. I run my fingers along forearm; I can feel the goosebumps. "Seriously. 'Sides, can't risk me screamin' and drawing in the Walkers."

I can't tell if he's rolling his eyes or sighing. Probably a combination of the two. "Your screaming ain't that bad."

I scoff. I hug my kees to my chest. "Please."

"You think it's worse than it really is." He leans down, and pulls out some dried berries from his bag. They're a few weeks expired, but it's all we have left. We'll hunt tomorrow. "You ain't the only one with nightmares, Beth," he says quietly.

I feel my face burn. I can't tell if it's from the heat of the fire, of the rush of blood to my cheeks.

"Can' understand what the invincible Daryl Dixon has nightmares about," I say. He passes me some berries. As he does, his cold, rough fingers brush against mine. "Mus' be something really awful, if it scares you."

He doesn't say anything for a minute. I look at him, and find him staring at me. My eyes beg me to drop my gaze, but I don't. I just stare back at him, and watch the flickering firelight create shadows across his face.

"You dream about your father, don' you?" he asks, quietly.

My eyes widen. I search his expression. It's much softer, much more gentle than I'm used to. I want to be angry at him for asking about daddy, but I'm not. How could I be?"How'd you know?" I whisper.

"I mean, knowin' you, I figured as much," he replies.

_Knowin' me. _Yeah. Daryl Dixon knows me, alright. He knows much more about me than he probably should. In the last eight weeks, we've slept all of five feet away from each other. I've eaten my food, used the bathroom, changed my clothes, and cried in the same vicinity as him. He's done the same. And we've both seen much, _much _more of each other than we probably should have.

It isn't good for me, bein' this close to him. And the reason I know this is because my heart is racing, my head is pounding, and all I can think of are how his lips would feel against mine. And he's Daryl Dixon. He's supposed to be my family, my older brother, my survival partner.

And I want to fucking _kiss him._

_It isn't good for me._

He must realize this, too. Because when my face drifts a little closer to his (more unintentionally then anything), he drops his gaze.

"Don' pretend," I say, much more snappily then I mean to.

"Beth . . ."

"No." I don't blink, and I hardly breathe. I just stare at him. "Don' pretend like there isn't something between us. I know there is. _You _do."

He looks back up. He puts a hand to the back of my neck, and presses his forehead against mine. And, all the while, my heart continues racing.

"God, you're right. I know you are." Somehow, his voice is steady. "But we can't, Beth. We can't go there."

He doesn't have to say why. He's all I have, and I'm all he has. This "connection" is probably Stockholm Syndrome. He's twice my age. Hell, I'm barely a woman, and he already looks like a weary old man. And, deep down, I know the most important reason why he won't do it. If I were Michonne, or Maggie, or Carol, it would be different. But I'm not. I'm innocent. I'm young. I'm pure. And I know that he doesn't want to take that away from me.

So I nod. I quietly say, "okay." I start to get up from my log, and walk over to where my sleeping bag is laid out.

But, then, I look around me. I think of the world I'm living in. And all I can think is, _who knows if I'll be dead tomorrow?_

So I sit back down, turn to him, and lean in. It's a rushed, stolen kiss. He remain still, frozen, as I press my lips against his. He's about to deepen it, but I pull away before he can.

"I'm sorry," I blurt out. I keep my eyes trained on the ground. I can't bear to look at him. "I had to. At least once."

I don't wait for his reply. I turn away from him, get up, and make a beeline for my sleeping bag.

I don't have any nightmares tonight.

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**A/N: Damn. This is probably the least T-rated thing I've written in close to two years :D**

**I hope you guys enjoyed this! While I'm incredibly partial to Dixonne (psst check out **_**September Nights)**_**, Bethyl is simply too sweet not to write about. The two of them have had some great moments this season, and now that they've run away together, it will be nice to see how their relationship is developed.**

**Do you think the writers will make their relationship romantic, or will they keep it platonic? My guess is the latter. (But a girl can dream) :P**

**xx Nina**


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